


The Curious Wine

by songlin



Series: Powerful, Beautiful and Without Regret [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Anal, Anal Sex, Angst, Blood, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Consent, Dirty Talk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Consent, Fingerfucking, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Rimming, Vampire Sherlock, Vampires, Werewolf John, Werewolves, emotions are also sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I want to watch you kill, because I want to see you lose that tiresome battle against your baser instincts. I want to drink from you, enough that you go weak and breathless and can’t stand properly, but I don’t want to kill you, because then you’ll be gone and the thought of never being surprised by you ever again makes me want to go naked into the sunlight and wait until it burns me into ash."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sword and the Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme: Elliot Goldenthal, Lestat's Recitative

Sherlock Holmes is practically a master craftsman in the art of deduction and seduction. Has to be, when his favorite food comes from young, attractive coke fiends. Cocaine being rather an expensive addiction, it’s a bit of a challenge for Sherlock to earn his meal, so to speak. The average cocaine addict is in their twenties or early thirties, either a young professional or a wealthy student living on their parents’ dime. The former is quite difficult. The latter, easy, but not as rewarding. The latter care less for quality, as they don’t know the difference yet, so naturally, Sherlock prefers the former.

That’s how, on a particular Sunday in March, Sherlock finds himself in a bespoke tuxedo, lurking about the fringes of a corporate mixer at a posh Kensington hotel.

If he tries, Sherlock can smell cocaine on a man at fifty paces. But he prefers to do things the way he had to when he was younger, before his senses really developed. He scans the room.

_There--the accounts executive at the bar sitting by himself. He’s twitching all over and very friendly, though what he’s saying makes the bartender nervous--indicates the conversation is likely disturbing or difficult to follow. Can hear his pulse pounding from here, pupils dilated, sniffing frequently, wiping nose, hands trembling: addict. Did a line in the bathroom twenty--no, fifteen minutes ago._

Sherlock smiles, adjusts his tie, and moves.

The man is jumpy, but not aggressive, and when he cottons on and figures out that the pale, beautiful man is, in fact, chatting him up, he gets much more interested very quickly. It doesn’t help that Sherlock has decades of practice at this. Seven words in and he knew exactly how gay to act, how much touching he needed and where, and how long it will be before the businessman is shoved up against the long marble counter in the bathroom with a chair shoved up under the door handle, collar undone and Sherlock’s lovely curved fangs sinking in a few centimeters to the right of his jugular. In this case, it is obviously queer but publicly closeted, a few light touches to the hands, fingers and wrists, and seventeen minutes.

The businessman, Victor, is panting and rock-hard against Sherlock’s thigh, and Sherlock is drinking him in long, slow, languid pulls. He hasn’t fed in a week, but he’s barrels of self-control and wants to savor this.

“God,” Victor gasps. “I’ve had vampires before, but you’re...you’re incredible.”

Sherlock growls, winds his fingers through the businessman’s hair and _yanks_ his head back.

“God, love, you’re good.”

_Stop talking,_ Sherlock thinks.

“Oh...isn’t that...”

_No, it isn’t. Shut up._

“Um, actually, I--”

_Shut up._

“If you’d--no, stop, don’t, you’re going to--”

_Yes, I am, aren’t I?_

He’s struggling now. It’s rather laughable, how weak he is, especially compared to Sherlock. Normally they fight before they’ve lost nearly this much blood.

“Stop! Stop! Please, I...”

He pounds on Sherlock’s chest again, once, twice...

...and he’s still.

Sherlock groans and pulls away. Dead blood leaves an awful taste in your mouth. This one’s still technically alive, but only for another three minutes at the most. He drops the businessman onto the counter, licks his lips, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and straightens, buttoning his jacket back up and adjusting his tie. There’s a buzzing in the back of his skull from the same chemicals that thirty seconds ago were making Victor’s heart race and pupils dilate. In Sherlock, they merely invigorate, enhance.

And that’s good, or close enough, at least, so he flattens a hand in his curly hair and sets out for another round.

\---

Two years later and on the other side of the globe, John Watson took a bullet to the left leg. Not ten minutes later _(which is quite rude; not even enough time to bleed to death)_ he was nipped in the shoulder by a Taliban werewolf who was promptly shot in the head by the medevac team that had come for John. His medical team told him _(rather overly hopeful, that bunch)_ that since the wolf hadn’t had time to really do a number on him, perhaps he wouldn’t fully transform.

Naturally, they were dead wrong. It was either that or believe his doctors were a lot of lying bastards, and John was inclined to hope the latter. Of course, hope became the last thing on his list of priorities a month after the bite, when the full-body itching under his skin and persistent ache in his joints exploded into _pain_ and _hunger_ and _rage._ He spent the next day out cold, sleeping off the aches and adrenaline high. The day after that, his doctor sits him down and informs him he is being sent home.

“There’s this program,” he says, handing John a manila file folder. “The Hyperion Alliance. You’d be paired up with someone else. For...mutual...”

“Control,” says John in a calm, humorless voice as he peruses the pages inside the folder. “I’d be shacking up with a fucking vampire.”

The doctor grimaces and shrugs. “Hey, it’s gone well from what I’ve heard.”

“And you talk to loads of werewolf ex-army men?”

He shifts uncomfortably. “Well, you know. It comes highly recommended. And it’s entirely voluntary. You don’t have to do anything.”

“Except annually prove to the British government that I’m ‘restrained and capably observed’ during the full moon or they throw me in jail.”

The doctor coughs. “Well...yeah. That.”

“So even with the lunazepam, it’s this, supernatural friends or family--which I haven’t got--or one of the reserves.”

“Look, John, you don’t have--”

John sighs. “It doesn’t matter. Thanks.”

Naturally, he calls the number as soon as he’s unpacked his bags in the London hotel he’s staying in for the time being. He likes London, which is what he tells the intake counselor they assign him to.

She aimlessly clicks through her computer. “Well, it doesn’t look like we’ve got any sanguinarian volunteers in the immediate London area at the moment. How’s Manchester sound?”

John is about to reply with a sharp retort when someone shouts “John!”

He turns round. A large, amiable-looking man is making his way through the chairs. John forces up a smile.

“Mike? Mike Stamford?”

He grins. “That’s me.” He claps John on the shoulder. “God, how long’s it been since we were at Bart’s?”

“Too long,” says John.

Mike indicates the irritated intake counselor. “So what brings you onto this side of the desk?”

John grimaces. “Got bit.”

“Ah. Me too. Down on Dartmoor. You get anybody yet?”

“No,” says the intake counselor, peevishly, “and--”

“Don’t know if this is really for me,” John interrupts. “Maybe I’ll just go the old-fashioned route and move into one of those bloody reserves.”

Mike chuckles. John frowns.

“Sorry, I--that’s just--you’re the second person to say that to me today.”

Now John is past frowning. He is standing and reaching for the cane he needs to walk when he is this far from the full moon.

“Who was the first?”


	2. Rats and Children Follow Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So you’ve felt fear. Real, true fear, the sort you taste.”  
> “Of course. Too much.”  
> “Want to taste some more?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme: Radiohead, Everything in its Right Place

When Mike opens the door to the lab, it takes John’s eyes a moment to adjust to the light. Someone has one of those high-powered sunlamps on at the end of the room and it’s casting everything in a strange white light.

“Bit different from our day,” he says, blinking.

At first he doesn’t see anyone at all, but then there is a flutter of movement at the far end of the table and the lights dim. A tall, pale, dark-haired man in a well-tailored suit is straightening and holding aloft something that looks like a finger. He frowns at it, turning it back and forth in his hand.

“Can I see your hand?” he says. “No, not you, Mike. You.” He squints down at the finger.

John blinks. “Er, sorry...what?”

“I need a comparison.”

John looks at Mike in mild disbelief. Mike grins. Shrugging, John limps over to the pale man and extends a hand.

“An old friend of mine,” Mike is saying. “John Watson.”

The dark-haired man takes John’s proffered hand, gently turns it over, and nods curtly before dropping it back to John’s side and placing the severed finger back in the aquarium under the sunlamp.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John blinks. “Excuse me?”

The tall man flicks the sunlamp on again. “Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Er...Afghanistan. Sorry--”

“How do you feel about the violin?” He is adjusting dials on the sunlamp.

John frowns. “Sorry, what?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. I keep my blood in the vegetable bin and I don’t bother with that daytime rest nonsense. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” He looks up from whatever it is he’s doing with that finger, and John notices his eyes are only just too bright a silver to be entirely human.

“Oh, Mike told you about me?”

Mike grins. “Not a word.”

“Then--who said anything about flatmates?”

The pale man huffs in irritation, swats the sunlamp off and scoops up his coat. “I did. This morning. Told Mike I must be a difficult sanguinarian to find a suitable lycanthrope for. Not six hours later, he stops by with an old friend from uni obviously just infected and back from military service in Afghanistan. Not a difficult leap.”

John shifts his weight to his good leg. “How _did_ you know about Afghanistan?”

The man shrugs his coat on and loops a dark blue scarf around his neck. “I’ve got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow at seven o’clock. Sorry, I’ve got to dash; I think I left my crucifix in Pediatrics.”

He pushes past John and towards the hall. John coughs and turns ninety degrees, pivoting on his good leg.

“That’s it then?”

The man pauses halfway out the door. “What?”

“We’ve only just met and we’re going to look at a flat together?”

The man frowns. “Problem?”

John looks back at Mike again, who is still grinning.

“We don’t know a thing about each other,” he says. “I don’t know where we’re meeting. I don’t even know your _name.”_

The man’s strange silver eyes flick over him again and narrow. The corners of his mouth tick up. “I know that you’re an army doctor recently returned home from Afghanistan after being infected in the line of duty. I know you’ve got a brother who’s also a werewolf, but you won’t go to him because you don’t approve of him, possibly because of the alcoholism, more likely because he’s unmedicated. I know you were shot maybe...ten minutes before you were infected, early enough to keep, and it hurts this close to the new moon. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” He smirks and turns up his collar. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.” He winks and ducks out the door.

John turns to stare at Mike. Mike shrugs.

\---

On the cab ride to Baker Street the next day, John finds that his body is buzzing, but his head is surprisingly clear. It’s not an unusual feeling this far from a full moon, but it’s still refreshing.

He did a bit of Googling last night and came across Sherlock’s website. The Science of Deduction, run by “the world’s only consulting sanguinarian. Hobbyists, fetishists and amateur researchers will be ignored and then banned.”

He spent half an hour scrolling through the forums. There was the expected flock of “omg i just got bit halp me find who did it” and “please please will you make me a vampire mr holmes?” But the poorly-spelled pleas for a bite were well outnumbered by cryptic posts saying things like “rash of uncontrolled but medicated transformations in Dartmoor,” “nonconsensual feeding w/amnesia in Cardiff businessmen,” and, the longest: “missing batch of lunazepam from Halcyum plant, no signs of break-in, radical lycanthrope acceptance advocates take credit but all accounted for at time of theft.”

John considered putting Sherlock’s name through one of those specialized databases of historical birth records and photographs to see if he could learn anything else, but it felt too much like an invasion of privacy. Googling someone is one thing. Actively digging through databases for information on one’s vampire potential flatmate is entirely different. Thus, after an hour and a half on the internet, John was still going into this meeting more or less clueless.

Sherlock is waiting by the door, hands in his pockets. He does not offer one to John to shake, but nods and smiles instead. “Evening.”

“Mr. Holmes,” says John, returning the nod.

“Sherlock, please.”

“Prime spot,” says John, indicating the street. “Must be expensive.”

“I know Mrs. Hudson, the landlady,” Sherlock says, knocking on the door. “She’s given me a special deal. Few years back her husband got sentenced to death in Florida for biting a coed. I was able to help her out.”

“So you stopped her husband being executed?” John is not entirely sure whether or not to disbelieve him.

“Oh no,” he says, smirking. “I insured it.”

Before John can respond, the door opens to a smiling elderly woman. “Sherlock!” she says, and hugs him.

With a jolt of surprise, John realizes she is biotypical. He shouldn’t be surprised, really; it’s not entirely out of the ordinary for biotypicals to be willing to live with people like him and Sherlock. But most of the time those who do are the tough sorts who are reasonably sure they could take a fully transformed, unmedicated werewolf in a fight. They are rarely kindly grandmother types in purple house-dresses who smell of biscuits, face powder and tea.

“May I introduce Dr. John Watson?” says Sherlock, gesturing towards him.

“Hello!” Mrs. Hudson says warmly, shaking his hand. “Come in, come in!”

The flat is roomy, but comfortable. The windows are not blacked out the way John knows some sanguinarians prefer. Instead, they are fitted with dark blackout curtains that can be raised or lowered.

“There’s a second bedroom upstairs,” says Mrs. Hudson. “If you’ll be needing two bedrooms,” she adds slyly.

John coughs. Being bisexual, so he understands the conclusion, but a sanguinarian? He’s not _that_...that. “Of course we’ll be needing two.”

Sherlock’s back is turned. He seems to be examining a skull on the mantelpiece.

“Oh, don’t worry dear!” says Mrs. Hudson. “We’ve got all sorts. Mrs. Turner next door’s got married ones. Every full moon they go for a walk down the street! It’s darling.”

She bustles off down the stairs. John looks the flat over again.

“Yes,” he says. “This could be quite...this could be very good indeed.”

“I thought so too,” says Sherlock, turning round, leaning against the mantelpiece and hefting the skull in front of his face. “So I went ahead and moved in.”

John raises his eyebrows. “So all this is your stuff?”

Sherlock frowns. “Problem? Were you expecting a coffin?”

“I--no.”

Sherlock balances the skull on top of a stack of papers. John blinks.

Later, Sherlock will explain to him what goes into this particular maneuver of his. It has something to do with the fluidity of motion and the paradoxical effects of a stagnant bloodstream, but none of that’s John’s speciality, so it doesn’t really stick. What he _sees_ is this.

Sherlock is at the mantelpiece. In the span of a blink, he stops being at the mantelpiece and starts being right in front of John. Too close, if we’re speaking frankly. John’s more supernatural instincts are faint at best at the moment, but he was a soldier before he was a lycanthrope, so doesn’t need them for his nerves to jump into overdrive when there’s a threat inside his guard.

Sherlock’s eyes are crawling over him. John cannot tell what he is reminded of. It might be a jaguar, sizing up a rival,or a fox trying to decide which part of a rabbit to tear into first, or something else entirely.

He is as still as he can make himself. His breathing slows to nearly nothing, inhaling and exhaling in total silence. His heartbeat is thrumming in his ears.

And it’s _fantastic_.

“You were in the army,” Sherlock says quietly.

“I was,” John says in even tones.

“Seen a lot of trouble then?”

John huffs out a nervous laugh. “No one becomes a werewolf peacefully.” He’s casual with the pejorative. His therapist hates it, but she’s biotypical, so fuck her.

Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on his. At this range they’re even brighter, or maybe it’s just that it’s nighttime now. “So you’ve felt fear. Real, true fear, the sort you _taste.”_

There is something in his voice that’s painfully intriguing. John thinks of the old folk stories about sanguinarians being able to hypnotize you or make you dream of them. “Of course. Too much.”

He edges just a fraction of a centimeter closer. John has never been so near anyone he wasn’t either killing or kissing. He’s not sure which he’s afraid might happen.

“Want to taste some more?”

John breathes out all the air in his lungs in a rush. _“God, yes.”_

Sherlock grins. “Come with me.”

\---

A few hours later, John shoots a vampire through a window.

Naturally, he kept his gun, and treated bullets have been military standard since the Crimean War. It’s a tricky shot to make with a handgun, but the vampire in question had Sherlock about three seconds from swallowing what was probably a silver nitrate pill. Silver will kill Sherlock just as quickly as it did the dead young coed on the floor of an abandoned house in Brixton and the three others before her, so John is not willing to take the chance.

Sherlock gazes out the window the whole taxi ride back to Baker Street, smirking faintly.

“This is a day for you then, is it?” says John. “This is an ordinary day.”

“No,” says Sherlock. “This is a _good_ day.” He grins.

John laughs. “I must be mental.”

“Obviously.”

“I’ll bring my things over tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, then.”

John squints out the window. “Sun’s coming up.”

“Very observant of you, John. Yes, it is.”

“Oh, shut it. You’re not worried?”

Sherlock shoots him a disdainful look. “I’ve been a vampire for a hundred and fifteen years. I can take a bit of sunlight.”

John’s eyebrows raise, but he says nothing. Sherlock takes note.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Please, John, don’t tell me you’re judging me for being... _old,_ or--”

“No! No, no, no. It’s just--I’ve never--I’ve never heard anyone else talk about themselves like that.”

Sherlock eyes him. “What? Vampire?” He sneers. “It was the only word for things like me for the first eight decades of my existence.  Pardon me if I’m slow to catch on.”

John rolls his eyes. “Really, it’s fine, Sherlock.”

“It had better be,” he says, suddenly fierce. “You had best work that out now, before--”

“Sherlock. Listen. I’m saying--it’s all fine.”

Sherlock’s mouth presses into a fine line. “Good.” He looks back out the window at the rising sun.

“Thank you,” he adds, some time later.

John smiles.

_Mental,_ he thinks, and sinks under.


	3. Give Me Something to Be Scared Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Go ahead then,” says Sherlock. “You want to rip out a throat, here’s mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme: Marilyn Manson, Evidence

_Evidence - Marilyn Manson_

The first full moon is three weeks after John moves in.

This will only be his fourth, and his first out of hospital care. He adjusted to the lunazepam quickly enough, for which he was thankful. He knew some lycanthropes who had to check into the hospital the day before every full moon for years, trying to balance the lunazepam, painkillers and muscle relaxants until they could transition without pain and without going into what the paranoids called “moon madness.” John had had a taste of it the first time, when they hadn’t dosed him at all, and dreamed about it almost as often as he dreamed of the war.

So the week before the full moon, John starts taking his Halcyum. And it’s a damn good thing, because he was just starting to get awfully testy. Testy is not a particularly good state to be in around the world’s most irritating flatmate.

Sherlock does, in fact, keep blood in the veg drawer of the refrigerator, and John wishes that were the tamest aspect of living with Sherlock Holmes. But no, there’s also the questionable thumps and bangs from his room at all hours, the moods in which he stops _playing_ his violin and starts _torturing_ it, the frankly hazardous state of the loo...

There are many, many mornings John has to think for a moment before he remembers why he hasn’t moved out yet.

The day of that first full moon, John is painfully keyed up. He gets up at sunrise to find Sherlock perched on his chair with his hands folded under his chin.

“Tonight’s the full moon,” he remarks.

“Well spotted,” says John.

“Legally speaking, I’m responsible for you during your periods of transition.”

“True. If what you’re _actually_ asking is ‘please John may I watch,’ my answer is ‘yes, Sherlock, if you do not try to experiment on me while my bones are bending backwards.’”

Sherlock grins triumphantly. “Excellent.”

John shakes his head and cracks his neck. It’s too early to be moving. He needs a cup of tea.

“What do you normally do? During, that is.”

John shrugs. “Dunno. Go for a walk.”

Sherlock scowls. “Dull.”

“Well, what with the temporary lack of opposable thumbs and the ability to speak, there’s not a lot I _can_ do.”

Sherlock frowns. “Fine. A _walk_ then.”

John rolls his eyes.

The rest of the day practically crawls. He gets all full moon days off from the clinic, so there’s nothing really to do until the sun sets. He tries to type up a case for the blog, and halfway through realizes he’s not making any sense at all. He tries to read a few chapters of a new book and stopped once he found himself re-reading the same paragraph over and over. Finally he gives up and decides lying on his bed trying (and failing) to nap is actually a better use of his time.

By sunset, John’s entire body is tingling. He rolls out of bed and stumbles into the bathroom on unsteady legs. If he doesn’t take the painkillers and muscle relaxants _now_ things will get very uncomfortable, very quickly. When he emerges, Sherlock is leaning against his doorframe.

“Not long, then,” he says.

John wipes a trembling hand across his brow. “Oh no, I’ve got ages,” he snaps.

Sherlock cocks his head. “Interesting.”

“What is.”

“The mood changes aren’t a myth then.”

“Oh, piss off,” John spits.

“Moonrise is at 8:55 PM,” Sherlock says, studying him closely. “It’s 8:49 now. That’s not much time.” He nods. “Better get ready.”

“Alright then,” says John. “I will.”

“Yes. That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It is.”

“All _right_ then.”

John coughs.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Sherlock snaps. “What _is_ it?”

“I’m not... _stripping_ in front of you, Sherlock.”

“Oh, please. I’m going to see you in a second anyways.”

John folds his arms across his chest and raises his eyebrows. Sherlock sighs dramatically and looks at the ceiling. Satisfied enough, John shucks off his clothes, grimacing. Sherlock is right; there’s not much time. He can feel it in his bones, how close he is. The painkillers take the edge off and the muscle relaxants are preventing him from tensing, but there’s still a sort of pulling sensation in his joints. It’s uncomfortable, but not exactly painful.

He sits down on the bed with a sigh, rolls over onto his side and closes his eyes. “If you’re going to watch,” he says, voice low and guttural, “you’re going to want to look now.”

He feels rather than sees Sherlock kneel by the bed. John cannot be bothered to look at him. He is occupied with clenching his jaw and fighting off the shaking in his limbs.

“Can you talk?” he asks, so gently it is a bit jarring.

John nods and grinds out a “yes.”

“For how long?”

“Bit.”

“That will have to do then,” he mutters, and then: “What does it feel like? Not the--textbook symptoms of transition, the--how it feels. All of it.”

John shakes his head. The answer has too many words. _Like continental plates smashing together. A volcano. A category 5 hurricane._

“How close are you?” The words are tight, clipped.

_“Shit,”_ he spits, because he has cracked an eye and just caught the moon coming up over the horizon.

He is grinding his teeth. More accurately, his teeth are grinding _each other,_ because they are lengthening before his jaw has had a chance to stretch and resize itself. The teeth are always first, and John thinks it’s uncomfortable until the rough prickling sensation of three solid inches of course, grey-brown fur forcing out his pores, like a million miniature wisdom teeth.

From then on it is a race, bone and muscle and sinew and skin stretching, tightening, thickening, his shoulders and hips rearranging, ribcage flattening from the sides in, elbows and wrists and ankles and knees snapping backwards. John has seen other transitions (and he always thinks about Harry during, _always)_ and knows they really only last about a minute and a half at the most, but during the process it felt like hours.

He knows it’s almost over when the sounds of his body crunching and creaking magnify in his ears just before they stop altogether, and his sense of smell sort of-- _expands,_ blowing outwards-- _Earl Grey cotton sheets ape blood damp wool old books gun oil_ \--and everything is too _loud hot bright smelling_ for an instant before his mind just--settles.

He opens his eyes.

\---

John is sprawled out on his side. He he does not move for a moment, except to pant in shallow, canine breaths. Then all of a sudden he blinks and sighs deeply, a startlingly human act, rolls over onto his stomach, lifts his shaggy head and looks at Sherlock.

His eyes are the same.

“Now that’s interesting,” Sherlock breathes.

John huffs. Sherlock grins, because it is exactly the same huff that follows some social blunder, usually accompanied with a shake of his head.

Sherlock reaches a hand towards John’s head. “May I?”

John dips his head a bit. Sign of submission in domesticated dogs. Is it in wolves? In any case, John is technically neither. Still, this is relevant data. Sherlock pushes his fingers into the thick fur on the top of John’s head.

It’s almost the color of John’s hair, a sort of gold-brown-grey, darker on his head, back, tail and the fronts of his legs. Sherlock has never yet failed to be amazed at how _huge_ lycanthropes can be. John is almost two meters long, with short, powerful legs and about three inches of fur adding the appearance of an extra twenty pounds of muscle. When he yawns, his mouth stretches easily wide enough to encompass the head of a full-grown man.

Sherlock is still feeling John’s fur. His ears are relaxing and his eyes are shifting partly closed, and Sherlock smirks. John ducks away with a little growl, just a warning.

“Enough of that, I take it,” Sherlock remarks, amused.

John stands and steps off the bed. He shakes, like a dog after a bath, and stretches. Once he seems to decide it’s enough, he trots over to the top of the stairs and looks back at Sherlock expectantly.

“ _Are we going or what?”_ the message seems to be.

Sherlock grins and snatches up his coat.

They run into Mrs. Hudson on the way out. She is very admiring of John transformed, but does not try to pet him. She _is_ rather experienced in these things, after all, and quite politically correct.

“You boys have a lovely night,” she says, beaming.

The door shuts behind them. Sherlock tucks his hands into the pockets of his coat and nods down the street.

“Shall we?” he says.

John pads off in the direction Sherlock has indicated without a second glance. Sherlock follows. After all, John is the one with the better senses at the moment.

It’s a rather warm night, so most of the other lycanthropes they pass are jogging along with their tongues hanging out. John does not seem to be bothered by it. Of course, he did spend two years in Afghanistan.

They cover ground quickly like this, and they’re two blocks past a really excellent Thai place when Sherlock abruptly veers right into an alleyway. John halts and barks out a question.

“Come on,” Sherlock calls, “we haven’t got all week.”

He sheds his coat and drapes it over a crate. John cautiously picks his way over the broken sidewalk and into the alleyway.

Sherlock has now shucked off his jacket and is rolling up his sleeves. John settles back onto his haunches and watches suspiciously.

“Go ahead then,” says Sherlock. “You want to rip out a throat, here’s mine.”

John’s eyes widen. He barks again, a very clear _no_. Sherlock raises his eyebrows.

“Please, I know how those medications work. They keep you from _having_ to kill, but there’s nothing to keep you from _wanting_ to, to at least _try_. You were a soldier! You were a fighter well before you were infected, and now look at you. Strong, fast, powerful...and you’re too scared to use it, any of it.” He spread his arms. “I have a solution. Fight someone who can take you.”

There is a definite change in John’s posture. He slouches forward, hackles going up. Sherlock smirks.

“Oh, yes,” he says. “And I _can_ take you.”

There is a split second in which it is apparent that John is still thinking of reasons he _shouldn’t_. Sherlock, on the other hand, takes the opportunity to prepare for the blow that he knows will come, just a subtle shifting of his weight so that he will not be knocked over.

There is a moment of warning when John crouches and growls. Sherlock grins.

John launches himself through the air and into Sherlock’s chest. Preparation or no, Sherlock is thrown to the ground. The breath that is knocked from his chest comes out a laugh. John lunges for Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock grabs him round the muzzle and clamps his jaws shut. John plants a massive paw on Sherlock’s throat, claws sinking into the side of his neck, and violently shakes his head back and forth, pushing Sherlock away as he tries to twist out of his grip. Sherlock releases him for a split second and John lunges again. Sherlock takes the opening to seize John under the ribcage and throw him away. He flies backwards at least five meters and lands hard on his shoulder with a yelp.

He is a bit slow picking himself up. Sherlock charges, fists the scruff of John’s neck up in both hands, and throws him further down the alley. John is more prepared this time, however, and skids to a landing on his paws. He goes into a defensive stance, front legs low and weight back. Sherlock grins and dives forward, running close to the ground, and moves to catch John under the jaw. But John sense his plan and leaps forward, keeping his head down, and counters by slamming into Sherlock with his full weight behind him.

The combined force would crush a normal human, but they barely stagger. Sherlock’s hands are grabbing at John’s head, holding the snapping, snarling jaws at bay, while John swipes at him furiously. Sherlock is quick, but at last John lands a solid blow across his face, opening four short, red gashes across his cheekbone. They do not bleed very hard, as Sherlock has not fed in days, but his mouth is curling up in a predatorial snarl and he’s _loving_ this and _God-it’s-good_ and John’s letting go of him and backing up a pace and now he’s _slamming_ into his body and knocking him to the ground, paws on Sherlock’s hands this time, and his teeth are closing round Sherlock’s throat and

every

thing

_freezes._

John is breathing hard, snarling on the exhale. Sherlock can feel the rush of hot air on his neck. Sherlock would laugh if he wasn’t so sure it would startle John, and those sharp teeth would clamp down and tear in.

“Alright then,” he hisses. “Do it.”

John growls. His jaws tighten a fraction. The longest canines break the skin, and Sherlock laughs.

“Come on, you’ve killed men before. Real men. _Alive_ men. What’s one more?”

John whines, high and sharp. Sherlock closes his eyes.

And then the teeth are gone along with John’s weight on his arms, and the cold night air is whistling over Sherlock’s skin. John barks at him again, furious and half-howling, then turns and races from the alleyway and down the sidewalk.

Sherlock lays on the ground for a long time, watching the stars and listening to the sounds of London during a full moon.


	4. Scarecrows That Fuel This Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I wanted to see what you look like when you destroy something you want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme: Slow Life, Grizzly Bear feat. Victoria Legend

John spends the rest of the night stalking round the flat. He gets the TV turned on, but it’s stuck on some dreadful reality show and working the remote is beyond him at the moment.

When Sherlock comes home just after dawn, John is waiting for him.

He is still faster and stronger than anybody biotypical, but Sherlock is faster, so he ducks the punch that comes flying in his direction as soon as he opens the door. John ends up putting his fist through the wall. He wrenches it out again with a curse and slams the palm of his other hand into Sherlock’s chest, pinning him against the door.

“What the _fuck_ did you think you were doing?” John snarls. His voice is still raw and hoarse and his eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. He feels like he’s just woken up with the worst hangover of his life. He is tired and hurting, but he’s _furious,_ and at the moment putting his fist through Sherlock’s face takes precedence over collapsing and not waking for days if possible.

“I could have _killed_ you,” he hisses.

“Mm, if I recall correctly, that was rather the _point.”_

“The--” John stops. Takes a deep, steadying breath. “You actually wanted it, didn’t you?” he says, calmer now. “You wanted to die.”

Sherlock’s mouth thins. “I sensed the potential, though unlikely--”

“I asked you a question, Sherlock.”

His lips curl. “Fine! Yes!” he spits. “Is that what you want to hear? Poor, sad, _old_ vampire, tired of life, wants to die? Then think that, if you like.”

John’s jaw works. “Fine. I’ll bite. What _were_ you looking for, you bloody-minded bastard?”

“Mm...change. I was looking for _change,_ something new and interesting to play with. Is that better? More in character? I am a hundred and fifty years old and _very_ clever; it can’t be difficult for you to believe I get _bored_. You’ve _seen_ it. So think that, then. It’s _easier_ for you.”

John explodes, grabbing Sherlock by both shoulders and _shaking_ him, hard enough to bang his head into the wall. “Damn it, Sherlock, I don’t want you to-- _appease_ me, or whatever the hell this is! I...I can’t do this. If you’re going to lie to me, I can’t. I _can’t_. I know you think you’re some kind of-- _machine,_ or something equally ridiculous, but I’m not. I need you to be honest with me.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“I don’t care.”

Sherlock licks his lips. His eyes narrow and roam over John’s body, and he feels oddly naked. When he speaks, his voice is low, rough, hot, like a cat’s tongue.

“I wanted to see what you look like when you destroy something you want.”

There is suddenly altogether not enough air in the room. John’s ribcage is expanding, but he can’t tell if he’s even breathing.

_“What?”_

Sherlock, on the other hand, is breathing very hard. Which is ridiculous, since he doesn’t even _have_ to. “I wanted to see,” he repeats, averting his eyes and lifting his chin. “I wanted it.”

John drops his arms to his sides and shakes his head. “But what do you--something I--what the hell--”

Sherlock smirks and meets John’s eyes. “I really don’t think I need to explain that bit.”

John rubs a hand across his eyes. “Fine. Never mind--that. We’ll--leave it. But you--Sherlock, you can’t just...do whatever comes into your head!”

Sherlock sneers and laughs bitterly at that, throwing himself away from the wall and towards his room. “If you think I-- _do whatever I want,_ you’re even stupider than I thought.”

“Sherlock--”

“If you really want to know what I want, _really_ do, come and _ask_ me. Until then, _leave me alone.”_

He slams his door. John winces and sighs.

_Sleep. Sleeping would be the best course of action at this juncture._

\---

John does not see Sherlock again for two days.

On the first day, he sends three texts.

10:03: _Going to sulk all day? JW_

12:17: _Very mature. Alright then._

6:31: _Mrs. Hudson thinks I’ve eaten you._

There are no replies.

_I wanted to see what you look like when you destroy something you want._

John shivered.

So far, he had avoided thinking about those words for too long. They hurt to dwell on, like palpitating a sprained ankle. _Because I don’t,_ John tells himself firmly. _I really, really don’t. He’s the most irritating man I’ve ever met and I want to punch him in the smug fucking face most of the time (or tear into his guts and watch them string out while he laughs and--)_

He stops when it’s the sickness talking, the beast lying dormant in his bloodstream, and tries not to think of the courtship habits of wild wolves, all biting and play-fighting that doesn’t look like play. When he asks himself _yes he’s a right bastard, so why are you still here?_ he doesn’t answer.

On the second day, he sends six texts.

10:17: _Are you actually sleeping? Alert the presses._

11:58: _You need to feed. And I’m not trying to slip your ape blood under your door._

1:26: _If you get sick starving yourself up there I will laugh forever._

3:12: _You know you can’t think straight when you’re that hungry._

7:47: _Sherlock, stop this._

9:19: _Either you come down or I’m calling your brother._

At 9:21, John’s phone rings.

He picks it up. “John Watson speaking.”

“John. Good to hear from you.”

“Mycroft.”

“Full moon went well?”

John grimaces. “It went.”

There is a moment of static silence in which Mycroft sighs. “John, things will be much easier on both of us if we can agree to be honest with one another, don’t you think?”

“If we--oh. He talked--he _talked_ to you?”

“Not quite. Let’s just say I received messages of a worrying nature.”

Not for the first time, John wonders if Mycroft can read minds. “Okay then. We went out, he started a fight, he tried to-- _goad_ me into ripping his throat out.”

“Hmm,” Mycroft hums disapprovingly. “That wouldn’t _kill_ him, of course, not at our age, but his motivations are...concerning.”

“I should fucking well say so!”

“You’ve spoken, I imagine.”

“Er...yeah. Yeah, we did.”

“Did he try to tell you he was bored?”

“Yes, actually. Called me an idiot a few times. Mostly implied.”

“Hmm.”

John waits out the silence. It has a passive-aggressive air to it, which is so very _Mycroft_.

_I’m not telling him. I’m not. Not giving him the--fuck it._

“Erm, actually, there was something else.”

“Oh?”

“He said...he said it was because he wanted to--see it. What it--what I looked like.”

“‘It’?”

“What... _I_ looked like. When I...destroy something I--when I destroy something I love.”

_“Oh,”_ Mycroft sighs. “Now _that_ is troubling.”

“And ridiculous. Not that ridiculous is exactly surprising from him.”

“Is it ridiculous?” Mycroft muses.

_“Yes,”_ says John emphatically.

“I see...yes. I see. Well, there’s nothing for him at the moment. Call me if he doesn’t come down by tomorrow. Or you can try to deal with him yourself, which honestly I’d prefer; I’m desperately busy at the moment.”

“He won’t--I don’t know, throw me through the door or something if I go in there?”

Mycroft laughs. “Oh, John. No.”

John scowls at his phone and hangs up.

\---

Three houses down, there is a song playing.

It’s been the same song for thirty-seven minutes now, something abrasive and vulgar and childish. Sherlock is leaning back against his headboard, hands tucked under his chin, having spent the last twenty-two minutes formulating creative and increasingly violent means of stopping it.

“...hand in mine into your icy blues...”

_\--break through the walls, seize him by the throat and slit him open, in the soft part; ribcages are a bother, from just below the xiphoid process to just above the symphisis pubis, with two fingers, punch through the skin and muscle and rip him open and string out his intestines, wind them round your hand like ribbons, lick--_

“...I’d end my days with you in a hail of bullets...”

_\--stop it, STOP IT, I can’t THINK--_

“...I’m trying to let you know just how much you...”

Sherlock claps his hands over his ears. It’s useless, of course, but it makes him feel a little better.

He shouldn’t have said it. Should’ve lied. _Idiot idiot idiot, he’s not like that, he’s not a bloody toy, he’s a person, the first in so long, and you’ve forgotten how to treat people, you utter--_

“...and after all the things we put each other through and I would...”

_\--at least you shouldn’t have said “want,” you moron, you weren’t thinking “want,” if you hadn’t said “want” maybe he would’ve gotten it instead of going all wide and blinking and pale like someone’s cut a hole in him and turned him upside down, and you’d like to try that, wouldn’t you, drink him til he goes all weak and possessed, but now you said “want” instead of--instead of what you were thinking, and now he’ll leave, he’ll leave and he--_

“...left to do but prove myself to you and we’ll keep...”

_\--that FUCKING SONG I’m going to--_

“...this time, I mean it, I’ll let you know just how...”

_You’ll let him leave, of course, because you don’t know what to do with people who are people and not toys. You break your toys, so what would you do with a human being, someone whole and lovely and good--oh but he’s not all good, is he, you know, though he doesn’t want to be, and you want to know how that tastes, the being so very good while every atom in your body wants to hurt something--_

“...as days fade...”

_\--because you’ve only ever tried it the other way round, you idiot idiot idiot--_

“...and nights grow...”

_\--but you can’t taste it now, can’t taste him, not ever, he’ll leave--_

“...and we go cold...”

Sherlock lies there a moment, waiting for the singer to howl “all we are is bullets,”  but it never comes. The song has stopped. The flat is silent, and after a moment, Sherlock’s head is as well.

He opens his eyes. John is sitting at the foot of his bed.

“You know it’s positively terrifying when you’re like that,” he says.

Sherlock frowns. “Like what?”

“You know. Eyes closed. Not breathing. All...limp.”

“I’ve been dead for over a century, John. You can’t be surprised that sometimes I look it.”

“Well, you’re damn well preserved. You have to give me the name of your mortician.” There’s the brief twinkle of a smile before he sighs deeply and looks away.

_Ah, yes. “This isn’t working. I’m sorry, I just can’t,” et cetera..._

“You’re barking,” he says.

Sherlock freezes, cold and unblinking.

“Suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Little kids pull pigtails, call names. Apparently hundred-and-fifty-year-old vampires try to convince you to kill them.”

Sherlock leans forward almost imperceptibly, fingers tenting on top of the mattress to balance him. “John,” he says in a low voice, “what--”

John puts up a hand. “No. Wait. Not done.” He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. “Is it always like this? For you. A fortnight, and you’re...obsessed?”

Sherlock unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “I...no. No. Never. It’s never-- _this_ has never happened before. Not like this.”

Something in his mind is screaming for him to stop, but it’s too late now. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb and all that.

John scoffs. “I don’t--”

“Never,” Sherlock repeats vehemently. He clenches his fists in the sheets because otherwise, he will probably touch John, and he doesn’t trust where that would lead just now.

John meets his eyes. Sherlock’s lungs still.

“Okay,” John says calmly. “Tell me about it.”

He blinks several times very rapidly. Sherlock can hear his pulse fluttering faster in his neck and thinks about how quickly it would flow out his veins and--

“There. I’m asking. What...do you want?”

Sherlock tilts his head back against the wall and shuts his eyes. It’s easier that way, not looking.

“I want _everything,_ John,” he says finally. “I told you I wanted to see you destroy something you--something you want, and that’s only--the _very smallest part,_ John, you have to understand that. I want to watch you kill, because I want to see you lose that tiresome battle against your baser instincts. I want to drink from you, enough that you go weak and breathless and can’t stand properly, but I don’t want to kill you, because then you’ll be gone and the thought of never being surprised by you _ever again_ makes me want to strip off all my clothes and go naked into the sunlight and wait until it burns me into _ash_. I want to touch you and keep touching you all through a transition, so I can feel what is happening inside your body when it _literally_ betrays you. I want to know what you smell like in the hollow of your neck when you wake up in the mornings, and taste it, because that’s when and where people are most like themselves, so don’t you _see,_ John, you _cannot let me have these things.”_

His hands are trembling at the end, so he clamps them tighter in the sheets. John has gone very silent. He licks his lips.

“So what you want,” he says at last, “is me.”

Sherlock gasps in a breath. “...yes.”

John’s eyes flutter shut, and open again.

He reaches for Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock jerks them away, glaring suspiciously. “No. You don’t want to do that, John.”

“Sherlock,” John says patiently, “yes. Yes, I do.”

He holds out his hands, palms up, and looks at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock spends a split second calculating outcomes, processing with rapid speed the information from John’s eyelids, the twitches at the corners of his mouth, the dilation of his pupils, the accelerated heartbeat--yes, the risk is astronomical; but the possible results...

He takes John’s hands. It’s that simple.

John smiles. “There,” he says. “Not so hard, was it?”

Sherlock doesn’t meet his eyes. “Difficulty is a relative--”

“Oh, shut it,” John says, and surprises Sherlock (which is _fantastic)_ by leaning forward and planting a soft, warm kiss against his lips.

_Earl Grey,_ Sherlock thinks. _Lemon tarts, spearmint toothpaste, lip balm...blood._

_And it’s good. All this._

_Good._


	5. Show Me What I Only Know the Limits Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's a game. The best kind. The kind that ends with you getting to do whatever you want with me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme: Blue Foundation, Eyes On Fire

That first night, it stays kissing until Sherlock’s cool fingers clamp down tightly round John’s wrists and his eyes fly open and he gasps, “Sherlock, wait-- _wait.”_

Sherlock drops his forehead against John and growls through gritted teeth, just ghosting his lips over John’s, and John has to stop a moment to pant for breath and try to keep his brain online when all he really, _really_ wants to do is twist a hand in Sherlock’s collar and yank his mouth back down onto his and kiss til he bleeds.

“We need to be careful,” he says when he’s regained his breath.

Sherlock is straining ever so slightly towards him. He makes a low whining noise when his breath breaks, and John’s determination almost flags.

“You can and you’re going to.” John sounds more sure than he feels. “I want--you’ve got to be sure.”

Sherlock huffs out a short, breathless laugh. “I am _sure,_ John.”

“All right, _all right,_ wait, stop-- _God,_ don’t--no, stop it--” John snatches Sherlock’s fingers off his ribcage and out from under his shirt. “It’s for me then. _I_ want to be sure.”

“You _are_ sure,” Sherlock says, _right_ up against John’s lips, and--

“I--Christ, you’re _stubborn,_ just--oh _God_ y-- _no_ \--fine, it’s--it’s a game.”

At this, Sherlock stops doing...whatever it was he was doing with his breath and the _very lightest_ traces of lips at John’s ear to look at him with that bright, curious spark of _“oh?”_

“A game,” he says, still doubtful.

John smiles. “Yep. The best kind. The kind that ends with you doing...you getting to do whatever you want with me.”

He goes a little lightheaded at the thought. _He could kill me. He won’t kill me._

_But he could._

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes. “That’s...that sounds like a good game.”

“There are rules,” says John.

Sherlock nods. Of course.

“We’re not having sex til the game is over. If you want to touch me at all, you have to get my explicit verbal consent.”

There is a light in Sherlock’s eyes that speaks of _plans_.

“Nothing explicit in public.”

“Is--”

“I decide what’s considered ‘explicit.’”

“What about--”

“‘Public’ too.”

Sherlock scowls.

“Keep your trousers on, I’m not done. The same rules apply to me.”

His eyes widen. “Oh. _John.”_

He puts up a finger. “Hold up, I’m almost done. No biting that breaks the skin. No drinking of blood in any way, in fact, so the twelve some-odd ways you just thought up of getting me injured and heroically offering to drink my goddamn blood are right out. Either one of us can withdraw permission at any time for any reason. And no more of this let’s-flirt-with-John-by-trying-to-make-him-kill-us nonsense, alright? At the end of the week, if we both still...want this--shut up, you never know--”

_“I_ do--”

“--minds are--look, just pretend it’s for me, if that’s easier--if we both still want it, haven’t thought better of it, which wouldn’t be a bad idea, by the way, as we’re both obviously mad--then...yes.”

Sherlock catches his lower lip in his teeth and nods. “What about tonight?”

“Ask,” John says patiently, nerves thrilling.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “John, _please_ will you sleep in my bed tonight, _pretty please.”_

He arches an eyebrow. “Not if you ask like that.”

Sherlock grinds his teeth, blinks, and _changes_.

He is already sitting back on his heels. Now he leans forward slightly onto his knees, balancing the front half of his weight on his fingers and peering up at John through his fringe. God, he’s practically on all fours, _on his bed,_ _begging_ John to--

No. He’s not begging.

Yet.

“Please,” he says, in a deep, sonorous voice that John can feel down to his fucking _toes_. “Come to bed with me. I want you to wake up with your face against my chest.”

John is not a cruel man, and Sherlock is a very tempting one.

“Only sleeping,” he says. “Nothing else.”

Sherlock frowns, but nods.

Since John put his pyjamas on early and Sherlock’s been wearing his all day, all there is to do is climb under the covers. John is determined to minimize physical contact, so when Sherlock’s hand starts creeping over his side he catches it and places it firmly on the bed between them, twining their fingers together.

“Nope.”

Sherlock frowns.

“Are you just going to stay awake all night staring at me?”

“It’s that or sleep.”

“Oh! Sleep! God forbid.”

“Well, I don’t _need_ to; there’s no _point.”_

“Waking up,” John notes.

Sherlock sneers. “Judging from what I recall of waking up and your behavior in the mornings, waking up is hardly something to look _forward_ to.”

“It is when you’re not waking up alone.”

Sherlock’s expression softens. “Hmm.”

John squeezes his hand around Sherlock’s. “There. Knew you’d see it my way.”

Sherlock scowls, but shuts his eyes.

\---

John wakes up still holding Sherlock’s hand.

He turns over and smiles. Sherlock is on his side, studying at their hands like there’s a microscope lens between them and his face.

“Morning,” John yawns. “How long have you been up?”

“Three hours.”

“Three--God, what have you been doing?”

“Thinking.”

John rolls his eyes. “Of course. What else?”

“Would you like to know what I was thinking about?”

John’s chest goes very still. “Er...yeah. I would.”

Sherlock’s eyes sweep down his body. “I was thinking about how I’d like to drink from you, when you say I can.”

John swallows. “You’ve got a lot of options for that, then?”

Sherlock laughs darkly. “I’m an imaginative man, John, and very experienced.”

John licks his lips. “Go on then. Tell me.”

Sherlock rolls over onto his stomach, still keeping hold of John’s hand, their sides centimeters apart. “I could have you up against a wall,” he breathes. “Or a door, maybe. I like it against a door, it’s thrilling, not sure why--and you’d throw your head back and put your arms around my shoulders, and pull me closer the moment I... _bite.”_

John is trembling, but he nods. “Keep talking.” _Jesus fucking Christ, don’t ever stop._

Sherlock lets go of his hand now, plants his on both sides of John’s head, and swings one leg over John’s thigh. He doesn’t make contact, merely hovers there on all fours, crouching over him.

“Or maybe I’d press your front to the wall, tear open the top of your shirt, pin your hands and sink my teeth into your shoulder while you drop your head into the wall and gasp. Would you like that, John? Tell me.”

“Yes,” he sighs.

“Or I could do it right here.” He’s lowered himself so his face is a hair’s breadth from John’s, breath ghosting over his lips. “Spread your legs wide and strip off your pyjama bottoms and rub my mouth into the inside of your thigh and kiss you and taste you until you’re just senseless. That’s when I would bite you.”

John gasps and squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t look at Sherlock just now, because his self-control only goes so far.

“I’ve never tasted a werewolf. I’m very curious about how you’d taste, if it’s different, so I’d drink slowly. Long, careful drags, rolling the taste over my tongue and swallowing. I’d be awfully close to your femoral artery, but I’m very good.”

“You’re _fantastic_. Oh, come on already, just--”

“What is it, John?” Sherlock says, voice low and rough and only a little smug.  “Is there something you want to _ask?”_

John grits his teeth. “For the love of-- _damn it,_ Sherlock, may I kiss you?”

“No points for creativity, but I do understand; I imagine your brain is--”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, say yes!”

Sherlock chuckles. “Kiss me, John.”

John catches him behind the ears and crushes their mouths together. Sherlock’s--God, Sherlock’s fangs are fully extended. They couldn’t have been last night; John would have felt it, but now they’re long and curved and dangerously sharp. He traces his tongue down one as delicately as he can, and Sherlock goes completely still. John halts and pulls away.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock growls, cupping a hand around the back of John’s head and kissing him.

The fangs add a level of difficulty that John was not expecting. He can’t stop thinking about them, how they’re made to kill a man, could kill _him,_ and his tongue is sliding past them and over them and that shouldn’t be half as arousing as it is, and if Sherlock’s going to bite him later than John intends to bloody well return the favor. He drags his teeth over Sherlock’s lip and just _eats_ the shudder it earns him, and Sherlock’s hard against his thigh and just barely _rocking_ and he didn’t ask to do that, so John should stop him, but instead he’s groaning and canting his hips up. They’re moving together, and when their erections slot together by sheer chance they gasp at the unexpected spark of _God-yes-more-of-that,_ but then there is a bloom of copper over John’s tongue. Sherlock groans so deep in his body that John can feel it in his bones, chasing the taste for half a second, before he realizes what he is doing.

When he throws himself away, it feels like dislocating a limb. John’s first instinct is to grab him and pull him back, put his mouth where it belongs, but he resists. He shakes his head hard and turns over.

Sherlock has rolled off of John and onto his back next to him. He has one hand pressed to his mouth and the other balled up in a fist on his chest. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut.

John absently runs his tongue over his lower lip. It’s a small cut, but it’s bleeding enough to notice.

“Well, at least we know I’m not allergic.”

Sherlock huffs out a short laugh, then grimaces.

“Can I touch you, or would it be too much?”

Sherlock thinks for a moment, hesitates, then shakes his head.

“Too much,” he says eventually.

John’s eyebrows draw together. He drops his head back down onto the pillow beside Sherlock’s.

“I hurt you,” Sherlock says, still not meeting John’s eyes.

“Not much, and not on purpose.”

“I would though. I would, and I’d _love_ it.”

John shakes his head. “Sherlock. Stop being obtuse. We’ve covered this, we really have. At length, you brilliant moron.”

Sherlock turns his head to glare at John.

“Look, I’m--mad as a hatter, but the things you want to do? The fact that you could hurt me, that you _want_ to hurt me? Kind of a turn-on.”

“But--”

“God, will you _shut up_ for five minutes? It’s a turn-on, because you won’t. Not unless I ask. You will only hurt me when I _want_ it.”

Sherlock’s eyes have softened. Most of the tension has relaxed from his muscles.

“How...do you know that?” he says at length. “How do you know, positively _know,_ that I will only hurt you when I have your express permission to do so?”

“Simple,” John says calmly. “I trust you.”

Sherlock blinks.

“You were right.”

“Oh, I was, was I? How’s that?”

“You are absolutely mad as a hatter.”

John laughs into his pillow until his sides hurt.


	6. My Turning Page

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I want to taste you. As much of you as I can. May I, please?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme: Sia, My Love

**Day One**

After John stops laughing, there is quite a bit more kissing, this time mostly focused on Sherlock’s neck. There follows a brief argument about what constitutes “having sex” before it is concluded that mutual masturbation while kissing is within the boundaries of the rules. John finishes first. Sherlock follows shortly thereafter as he sucks the come off of John’s fingers.

After that, it is only half past eight in the morning.

John was perfectly fine to bathe in the warm afterglow for the rest of the day until he emerged from the loo after his shower to find Sherlock spread out on the sofa in his dressing-gown, _and nothing else,_ having a wank. He is immediately forced to contemplate taking another shower, this one about ten degrees colder.

Lestrade calls them with a case around noon, something about lyssavirus-positive blood getting into a local hospital. Sherlock takes ten minutes to conclude it’s not a problem with the screening process, it’s intentional vandalism by radical lycanthrope separatists.

The case seems to be a sufficient distraction. John sleeps in his own bed that night, while Sherlock stays up staring at the screen of his laptop, scrolling through hospital records.

**Day Two**

After tracking down the gang responsible for the blood-swapping, Sherlock persuades John to infiltrate their headquarters. Barring a few heated looks as he tapes the wire to John’s chest, there are no especially intimate moments.

“Most lycanthrope acceptance advocates are equally supportive of sanguinarian rights, but I’d rather not risk it,” he says, buttoning up John’s shirt. “Best send in someone of their own persuasion.”

Things go well for the important bits. They catch them admitting to tainting the blood supply at St. Bart’s readily enough, and John gives the signal for Sherlock and the police to come in and make the arrest. They catch on rather quickly when the door upstairs is broken down, and in the ensuing chaos the ringleader wallops John in the back of the head with something hard and blunt. He’s still quite juiced up from the recent full moon, though, so he’s back on his feet fairly quickly and gets the bastard by the throat in no time.

He’s interrupted by the police coming downstairs, followed by a dark blue blur that yanks the lycanthrope that hit him from his hands and pitches him into--pardon, _through_ \--a wall with a roar.

Sherlock whirls and seizes John’s shoulders. He doesn’t ask permission, but John’s willing to forgive that under the circumstances. “John, are you hurt?” he shouts. “Tell me you’re not hurt.”

John is stalled momentarily by the depth of the loyalty in his eyes and the wildness in his face as Sherlock looks him over.

He rubs the back of his head and winces. “Er, yeah, I’m fine. Not even quite a concussion, I think.”

Sherlock’s fingertips trace over the same spot, watching John’s expression intently. Whatever he sees seems to reassure him, because he gives a deep sigh and drops his arms.

The man in the wall is pulling himself to his feet. Sherlock is immediately across the room and looming over him, knocking him back to the ground and planting a foot on his chest.

“Be very, _very_ thankful that man is not hurt,” he snarls. “If you had killed him, they would have to _scrape you off of the_ _walls.”_

The gang is rounded up and hauled down to Scotland Yard, and John and Sherlock are sent home after John assures Lestrade that he’s not badly hurt. Sherlock is still for the entire ride home, gazing out the window in stony silence. It’s not until they’re back in Baker Street that he crumples onto his bed fully clothed and turns away, his whole body shaking.

John climbs in next to him. “Can I hold you?” he asks gently. _Maybe someday on the twelfth of never he’ll learn to ask for what he needs his own damn self._

Sherlock nods, curls shuddering. John winds one arm around his ribcage and eases the other under his head, tucking his face into Sherlock’s shoulder. This is good, it seems. Sherlock hums contentedly and catches hold of John’s hands where they’ve come to rest near his sternum.

“It was worth it,” John says.

“What was?”

“Blunt force trauma to the head. God, it’s worth...deep-tissue burns, torn ligaments, compound fucking fractures to see how much you feel about me.”

Sherlock cranes his head back. “It’s becoming difficult not to kiss you,” he says.

John grins. “Go ahead then.”

They sleep that way, with John against Sherlock’s back and four hands clasped at Sherlock’s chest.

 

**Day Three**

John wakes with his right arm number than he thought it could feel without actually falling off. From the sound of the water running, he can deduce that Sherlock beat him to getting up and is now in the shower. He decides to make sure Sherlock comes back to an eyeful.

When Sherlock, stark naked, opens the door to his room to find his clothes, he returns to the sight of John Watson with his pants around his knees and his fingers two knuckles deep in his arse.

John laughs when Sherlock whirls straight back out of the room and slams the door. He stops laughing when Sherlock starts talking.

“I could go so much deeper, John,” he breathes, voice gone ragged. “My hands--violinist’s hands, long, slender fingers, and very... _nimble_. It’s practically tragic, you like that--and so beautiful, so beautiful and absolutely _wrecked_ \--because I could go so much deeper and harder and _better,_ I could fuck you with my fingers alone for hours, until all the skin on your body was slick with sweat and you were hoarse from _begging_ me to let you come--”

John muffles a cry into a pillow.

“You’re almost there now, aren’t you? Come on, John. I want to hear you.”

“Sherlock,” he chokes, and comes.

Sherlock gasps. Something hits the door with a loud _thunk_.

John is reduced to a boneless sprawl on Sherlock’s bed. Outside the door, he can hear a muffled curse and retreating footsteps.

A moment later, the shower comes back on. John laughs.

 

**Day Four**

They almost call the whole game off on the fourth day, and not even for the reasons you’re thinking.

Something involving pancreas of questionable age from an indeterminable source goes terribly wrong in the refrigerator. Sherlock declares the experiment failed with a melodramatic sigh and the slamming of the fridge door, and responds to John’s demands that they be disposed of with a dismissive wave of his hand and a “do what you like.” In the course of removing them, one bursts, covering John and half the kitchen with some kind of viscous brown ooze that absolutely _reeks_.

John stands there for a moment, collecting himself. Sherlock, upon hearing John’s loud outburst of colorful metaphors, had merely glanced over before returning to his re-sorting of the files in his computer.

“Right.” John storms over to the living room and kicks Sherlock’s foot.

He looks up, irritated. “You didn’t ask.”

“For the love of--I swear, I could hit you sometimes.”

Sherlock smirks. “You’d have to ask to do that too.”

John’s mouth works. He almost shouts something, but thinks better of it.

Instead, he lobs the remaining pancreas straight at Sherlock’s face.

It hits him in the cheek with a wet _slop_. To John’s disappointment, it does not burst. At least, not until Sherlock pinches it off his face with two disdainful fingers. Then it does, and spectacularly.

The look on Sherlock’s face is _priceless_. John tries not to laugh. It doesn’t last long. The trying, that is.

“It was _not funny,”_ Sherlock gripes later as they’re cleaning up the mess.

John snorts back another laugh. “It was hilarious.”

“It was juvenile.”

“Oh, and you’re the picture of maturity?”

Sherlock pouts.

“Cut that out. Come on, you bloodsucking idiot, you need a shower.”

“So do you.”

“That’s true-- _oh_. Yes...that’s true.”

Sherlock grins, looking up at him through his thick, dark eyelashes.

Their clothes are written off as a loss and binned. They climb into the shower before it’s quite warmed enough, and John yelps when the cold water meets his skin. Sherlock smirks at him.

“It has to be said, there are many advantages to one’s body temperature generally matching _room_ temperature,” he says, gloating.

“Shut up,” John orders, “and let me kiss you.”

_“Yes.”_

They have learned to be more careful around Sherlock’s teeth. John groans as he feels them start to lengthen and pulls Sherlock’s head back by the hair.

“I want to watch them,” he says breathlessly, and Sherlock hisses, baring his fangs just as they slide fully out, long and deadly.

John reaches up and touches the tip of one with the pad of his thumb, just feeling. “Jesus,” he says, awed. “I’m going to let you _bite_ me with those.”

Sherlock catches his fingers and pulls them away. “Oh, God, stop, you can’t--please don’t talk like that, you can’t, I can’t--I can’t.”

John rubs soothing hands down Sherlock’s sides. “Okay, okay. Ease off with the biting talk, I’ve got it.”

Sherlock tips his head forward into John’s and takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Under the rules of this game, is oral sex out?”

“In theory, I think so, but if you’re offering--”

“I am,” Sherlock growls.

“--well--then--God, fuck it, _get on your knees.”_

The water’s pressed Sherlock’s curls flat, but John can still get his hands into his hair and _pull_ as Sherlock’s mouth slides down the length of his cock. Sherlock shows no signs of wanting to take it slowly this time. It’s barely five minutes before Sherlock is making a noise like he’s dying, and John follows close behind.

In bed after, Sherlock won’t stop shaking, even with John’s limbs all tangled around him and John’s mouth feathering calming kisses against his neck.

“You were right,” he whispers. “We needed to...wait.”

John squeezes his hand. “Want to talk about it?”

Sherlock shuts his eyes. “I...no. I don’t think so. Not...now.”

John nods. “Can I kiss you? Is that all right?”

Sherlock smiles. “Yes, I think so.”

John gives him a long, sweet kiss and curls up against his chest.

 

**Day Five**

John wakes in the wee hours of the morning. Sherlock is talking. Not _to_ him precisely, or not that he means to, at least.

“I meant it, John,” he is saying. “I have never felt this way. _Never_. Do you know what that’s like? I am a hundred and fifty years old, I have explored and tasted everything I could reach and much I couldn’t, and now I have discovered something I have _no idea_ what to do with. I would destroy someone for hurting you, but at the same time _I_ want to hurt you. I _want,_ so much, so many things. I have _no idea_ what to do, John, and that is novel in a way I have no desire to experience, and--stop pretending you’re asleep.”

John blinks his eyes open. “Hello.”

Sherlock is looking up at the ceiling. “Hello.”

“You’re not unique, you know.”

He frowns. “What?”

“That feeling. It’s not unique. I mean, you’re unusual in that you’re a bit on the old side to be experiencing it for the first time now, and there’s that little issue with the blood-sucking, but those are pretty normal emotions to be going through when you fall in love with someone.”

John has no idea what prompted him to say it, but it seems to have been the right thing. Sherlock’s face softens and he tilts his head down.

_“Everyone_...feels like this?”

“Yup.”

“Do...you?”

John smiles. “Yup.”

Sherlock bites his lip. “So...you love me.”

“Yup. I do, God help me.”

“And...I love you.”

“Right again.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “How long do you _keep_ feeling like this?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, I’m told it gets milder over time, less of this...all-consuming sort of...need. But really, I’ve got no idea.”

Sherlock’s face splits into a wide grin. “We’re insane. All of us are, for wanting this.”

“Certifiably. Now, you madman, I’m going back to sleep.”

He falls asleep again rocked by the soft chuckles in Sherlock’s chest.

When John comes home from work that day, Sherlock has ordered him dinner. Most days Sherlock can barely remember that John eats at all, let alone what John’s favorite Chinese place is and how John likes his kung pao chicken.

“I got you food,” he says, hands doing something fiddly and nervous in his pockets.

John grins. “Oh, fantastic, I’m _starved_. Go on, go get a blood pack and sit down.”

Beaming, Sherlock does.

They go to bed well-fed and utterly happy.

 

**Day Six**

The day before the game is up, they do not get out of bed until noon.

Sherlock wakes John up at nine in the morning.

“I want to taste you,” he murmurs into the crook of John’s neck. “As much of you as I can. May I, please?”

John is soft and sleepy and pliable, which Sherlock can’t seem to get enough of. John comes in his pants practically untouched after forty-five minutes of Sherlock’s mouth on quite a lot of his skin, fifteen of which were spent on his wrists, hands and fingers alone.

After that, John asks to return the favor. Sherlock ends up sprawled on his back with John’s head between his legs. John discovers (much to his pleasure) that blowjobs make Sherlock actually speechless. He comes in total silence, apart from a gasp and the creak of the mattress as his spine arches.

When they’re finished, Sherlock kicks the dirty sheets off the bed and onto the floor and asks to examine the texture of the skin on the backs of John’s legs. This leads to another stretching of the already-thinned rules, and John comes for a second time with Sherlock’s tongue inside of him and both hands on his cock.

“I’ll use my fingers tomorrow,” he promises, eyes flashing.

“Oh God, no more dirty talk,” John sighs. “I don’t think I’ll ever need to come again, ever, for the rest of my fucking life.”

“I sincerely hope that’s--”

“Of course I’m joking, you paranoid twat. Come on, we’re getting up, I’m hungry.”

The rest of the day is spent in lazy lounging on the sofa, John watching crap telly and Sherlock indulging him just so he can spend a very long time with his head tucked into John’s shoulder.

“I’ve a pet vampire,” he sighed. “Who would’ve thought.”

_“Pet?”_

“Not the bit most people would be challenging, Sherlock.”

“I am _not_ a pet.”

“Sherlock, I turn into a _dog_ once a month. When I tell you you’re a pet, I’m speaking from relative experience.”

“If I’m your pet, then you’re mine.”

John mulls this over for a moment, then shrugs. “Well, you’ve got me there.”

Sherlock gives a satisfied hum and nestles in closer. _“Mine.”_

They move to Sherlock’s bed after John nearly falls asleep on the couch. Sherlock leads him back to his room, keeping him from stumbling into everything between the living room and the bed in his drowsiness, and they fall in together.

The next morning marks the end of the week.


	7. Where the Figs Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John draws back, Sherlock is looking at him in an entirely different way. It is somewhere between the way one looks at a meal, or just short of the way a predator sizes up his prey, or a collector sees a masterpiece for the first time. John has never thought himself beautiful, exactly, but under this man’s gaze, he can’t remember why not. He has never felt so dangerous and so vulnerable at the same time, and he can feel it like electricity crackling over his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme: Sleeping at Last, Turning Page

John wakes just after the sun comes up. His neck is a little stiff from the position he slept in. He moves to rub at the tense cords of muscles and encounters an obstacle. Surprised, he turns his head and discovers his pet vampire is actually _asleep_.

He smiles. It is impossible to mistake a sleeping sanguinarian for a sleeping biotypical human or a lycanthrope, of course. They’re too pale, too still. But it’s precious all the same in its rarity, particularly when it comes to _this_ sanguinarian.

He almost can’t stand to wake him. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to. The movement of his head has disturbed Sherlock, and he blinks slowly to life.

“I...fell asleep,” he says thickly and slowly. “Sorry, I...didn’t mean to.”

“How can you ‘not mean’ to fall asleep? Don’t you have to put forth a bit of effort?”

He shuts his eyes. “Distracted. Watching you breathe. I like to...make sure.”

John grins. “Oh my God, you’ve got a lisp.”

Sherlock scowls. “Piss off. Only when I’ve just woken. One of the many reasons I deeply _loathe_ sleep.”

John kisses his forehead. “It’s sweet.”

Something in his expression changes during the forehead-kiss. When John draws back, Sherlock is looking at him in an entirely different way.

It is somewhere between the way one looks at a meal, or just short of the way a predator sizes up his prey, or a collector sees a masterpiece for the first time. John has never thought himself beautiful, exactly, but under this man’s gaze, he can’t remember why not. He has never felt so dangerous and so vulnerable at the same time, and he can feel it like electricity crackling over his skin.

“It’s been a week,” Sherlock says.

John licks his lips. “We’re about sixteen hours short, if we’re going to be exact.”

_“Are_ we going to be exact?”

John swallows. “No. I don’t think we are.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock purrs, and crawls over him.

This kiss is slow, all gentle lips, and John’s tongue over Sherlock’s lateral incisors as they ease down into fangs, soft moans into each other’s mouths and spines barely curving to press urgent hardness into whipcord muscle.

John knows he had a hundred chances to stop, to leave. It simply never occurred to him to do so.

It’s not that he doesn’t think that it’s absolutely insane, all of it. On the contrary, he has thought it nearly every day since he moved in. But then the bloody-minded, maddening, _painfully_ beautiful man takes John’s hand and bends it back, baring his wrist, presses his long, sharp fangs to it, focuses those pale eyes on his and murmurs, “May I drink from you? You can say no, John, but will you let me? Please? I _want_ to, I want _you, so_ much,” and there is no more than a ghost of a voice in the back of his head whispering, “shouldn’t.” Not a fiber of his being dares dream of “don’t.” And what comes out is a shudder and, “Oh, _God,_ yes.”

It is the gentleness that did it. John had expected swooping invasions of his personal space and backing him up against walls and pushing and fighting and hard, rough kisses that tasted of hunger, and he feels sure that all these things can-- _will--_ happen. But when Sherlock finally asks his permission for this last, greatest thing, it isn’t a fight at all. It’s a _gift_.

He knows he’s finished as soon as Sherlock’s teeth break his skin. John hisses and tips his head back. In the same moment, Sherlock lets out a deep, rumbling moan of satisfaction. The pain doesn’t last as long as John had expected. He knows most people respond to bites with numbness, and a few are actually allergic and react with excruciating, debilitating pain. He’d secretly hoped he would fall into the third category: those whose systems interpret the pain as pleasure. He is not disappointed.

The sensation is similar to having someone who really knows what they’re doing working at your throat with their mouth, or sucking your earlobe in between their teeth, or fluttering little kisses up the insides of your legs. John is making sounds he’s never even _heard_ before. He can feel every rush of blood flowing out of his body, the drag and release of everything he’s letting Sherlock take. He is suddenly thankful Sherlock had insisted he lie back, because he is a bit afraid that if he were upright, he would swoon like a bloody Romantic heroine.

Sherlock does not drink for very long. It is, after all, John’s first time. When he pulls his head away from John’s wrist, it is with only a little reluctance. He licks his lips and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and John can actually _feel_ his pupils dilate as he watches.

_Holy shit, that’s my blood. He’s licking my blood off of his teeth and rolling his eyes back like it’s some kind of--five hundred-quid Merlot or something. Me. I did that to him._

Sherlock fumbles around in a drawer nearby and emerges with a first aid kit. He holds out a square of gauze. “Hold this,” he instructs.

John would normally have a quip about how he _is_ a doctor; he knows how to staunch the bleeding from a puncture wound. But at the moment he’s still dizzy and discombobulated and thinking mostly along the lines of _bloody hell what in the name of fuck was that and exactly how soon can I do it again?_ So he merely nods and holds the gauze to the trickle of blood from his wrist as Sherlock fetches the bandage and tape. He tears off a piece of the tape and catches it between his teeth.

John laughs nervously. “Not entirely sanitary.”

Sherlock gives him a disdainful look. “John, please,” he says around the tape. “Everything in my mouth is either a natural antiseptic or from your body.”

“God, it is, isn’t it?” John breathes.

Sherlock smiles, takes hold of the gauze from John, unwraps the bandage and begins to wind it around John’s wrist. John watches his hands. His fingers are long, violinist’s hands, and possess a gentleness that belies their strength. John has seen him break a man’s hyoid bone with thumb and forefinger, so it is borderline hypnotic, watching him use those hands for something so...caring? Unselfish? Something like that.

Sherlock takes the piece of tape from between his teeth and plasters it at the end of the bandage. “Leave that on for at least a week.”

John absently rubs at the bandage and shivers. “How long will it...feel like that?”

Sherlock puts his fingers over John’s. “About six hours,” he says, looking at the bandage like it’s absolutely stunning. “Unless I taste it again before that.”

John shudders outright just at the thought.

There is a palm on his chest as Sherlock leans down towards him. His lips hover just above John’s, just breathing.

_His breath smells like me,_ John realizes. _Like what he...God._

“May I fuck you now?” Sherlock asks, very calmly. “I understand if you’re tired, but I...want to. I _really_ want to. I want _you.”_ His eyes flick up and down John’s body as he says it, and if John thought he was hard before...

“Jesus _Christ,_ yes.”

When Sherlock kisses him, it is so gentle that it should feel like he’s holding back. But it doesn’t. It is pure, simple, unadorned, but not at all restrained. Every ounce of their energy is in that kiss, it’s just...moving more slowly. This way, John has time to feel every muscle tensing, every little rumbling noise in their chests, every twitch of their fingers. He wonders how much more intense it is for Sherlock, who sees and feels everything all the time. He gets his answer when he ducks his head to the side and his teeth graze Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock moans and just like that, they cannot be close enough fast enough.

The chemicals in John’s blood really kick in sometime around when Sherlock rolls him onto his front, because later John can’t remember anything sequentially for that bit. There were his fists clenching in the sheets, long, slick fingers sliding into him _(finally, finally)_ , kisses against the slick skin over the base of his spine as it arches under a cool hand. At some point he must have gotten onto his back again, because when Sherlock pushes into him and just _trembles,_ fighting the need to fuck him hard with every bit of his self-control, John’s legs are around his waist. He squeezes Sherlock’s hand and smiles.

“It’s alright,” he says, and thinks he’s mad again.

Sherlock’s head is thrown back, he’s biting his lip so hard he must be almost drawing blood, and his eyes are squeezed shut. _God, he’s beautiful like this._

“God, Sherlock, you’re _so_ beautiful, you have to promise me to never stop, _never fucking stop,_ you hear me, I want your cock in me _forever--”_

“Oh God, stop,” Sherlock chokes out, “it’s too much; wait, John, please, I don’t want this to end yet.”

John rubs soothing hands up and down Sherlock’s ribcage as his chest shudders. “Shh,” he murmurs. “I’m right here. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

Sherlock bends and touches their heads together, breathing in ragged gasps. “You’re here.”

“Yes.”

“Because you love me.”

“And you love me.”

After a moment, Sherlock grits his teeth and rocks out and back in just barely, and that alone is enough to make John moan and pull Sherlock in for a kiss. Sherlock is very good at this part, if he can make it past the initial sensation of being absolutely overwhelmed.

John can normally last like this for ages, but it’s been _so_ _long_ and it’s just _too good,_ practically too good to be _real_. He can’t resist dragging his nails down Sherlock’s back and trying to memorize the noise he makes, and getting two handfuls of magnificent arse and squeezing just as Sherlock thrusts in.

“God, that’s fantastic,” John sighs. “You’ve got to let me fuck that.”

“Anything,” Sherlock gasps. _“Anything_ for you, John.”

He keeps pulling his mouth away from John’s to gulp in air, or maybe to give John a chance to. Either way, it’s _fantastic,_ because every time he looks like he’s dying or coming or both. The next time he does it, John twists his head to the side and grazes his teeth along his jaw. Sherlock’s hips jerk sharply at that, and John moans a “yes, like _that,”_ and bucks up into him, running his hands up and down Sherlock’s back. Sherlock makes a sound halfway between a hiss and a growl and one of his hands snakes down between their bodies and wraps around John’s cock. John half-shouts with the sudden wash of pleasure and squeezes Sherlock’s shoulders.

“John,” he says breathlessly, “I--I’m--”

“Close?”

_“Yes.”_

_“Christ._ Come on, then. For me.”

“Oh my God, oh my _God,_ John,” Sherlock says, lips pulled tight and eyebrows drawn together. _“John.”_

Sherlock finishes first by about two seconds. John knows this because it is Sherlock going stiff and kissing him hard and fierce as he bottoms out inside of him that drives him over the edge and into absolute oblivion. He wanted to watch Sherlock’s face _(next time)_ but it doesn’t end up happening. He’s too far gone for that, and all he can manage to do is pull Sherlock into him, as tight as he can, and _hold on._

After, they are both of them too sated and boneless to care about wet spots or messes. That can happen later. There isn’t much happening at all at the moment, aside from Sherlock lying against John’s side and winding his long, pale limbs around as much of John’s body as he can reach.

“If I suffocate via vampire I’ll make a right interesting story for Lestrade,” he remarks, when he regains the powers of speech.

“Mm,” Sherlock mumbles into his ribs.

John smiles. “That good?”

Sherlock turns his head and brushes a kiss to John’s sternum before falling back into place. _“Don’t_ pretend you’re an idiot, John; it doesn’t suit you.”

“So what you’re saying is I’m not an idiot.”

“Obviously.”

“I’m sorry, can I just get that recorded?”

Sherlock harrumphs.

“Perhaps on camera? For the Yard?”

“I can kill you with one hand, John.”

“Yes, that’s true. But you aren’t.”

Sherlock hums in agreement, stroking two fingers over the bandage on John’s wrist.

“No. I’m not.”


	8. Everything Burns Much Brighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One quiet evening on a comforter in front of the fireplace, it hits Sherlock like a speeding lorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme: Iron & Wine, Such Great Heights

After really and truly gorging himself on John, Sherlock’s body temperature is almost John’s. His cheeks flush pink and his eyes darken, less of that otherworldly silver, closer to a sort of grey-green. Fed enough, he looks almost _alive_.

It’s almost enough to make John pin him down and bare his neck and say to him, “Here. Take it all.” He wouldn’t, of course. He is a soldier, and a hunter, and his survival instincts are still at least strong enough to stop short of utter suicide. But even though he knows it’s ridiculous, impossible, in fact, he wonders what he would look like if John gave Sherlock every drop of blood in his body. Would he look alive? Would he _be_ alive? 

Could he bring Sherlock back to life?

He knows it will never be. Besides being impossible, John is a soldier, and Sherlock is a hunter.

But he thinks of it sometimes all the same.

\---

One quiet evening on a comforter in front of the fireplace, it hits Sherlock like a speeding lorry. It flattens him to the floor, gasping and sweating and grabbing at John.

“Jesus, Sherlock, what--”

John, _good sweet fragile dangerous John_ is pressing his weight down on Sherlock’s body, which is good. It’s anchoring. So Sherlock throws his arms around him and pulls him further down into him, as tightly as he can, as if he’s trying to hug John straight into his body.

“What’s wrong?” John says gently.

“You’re going to die,” Sherlock gasps.

John grimaces. “Hm. Yeah. I am. Going to get old too.”

“I don’t mind that part,” Sherlock says, still heaving for air. “It’ll be interesting.”

“I won’t be half so pretty as I am now,” says John, with a quirk to his lips.

“No. You’ll be...not better. New. I like new.” His eyes are squeezed shut and his face buried in John’s shoulder.

John’s face softens. He nods. “Yeah. That’s...true.”

“But...the dying part. I don’t want that. Ever. If you--”

“I wouldn’t want it,” he says. “Not even if it were possible. I don’t want to live forever. I like the sun, and getting drunk, and all those stupid alive things you think are ridiculous. I wouldn’t give them up.”

Sherlock gasps. “Stop. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t be so cruel. You wouldn’t--leave me. If you had a choice.”

John rubs a thumb down his cheek, wincing. “You wouldn’t like me that way. Stagnant.”

“I _would.”_

“You wouldn’t. I wouldn’t surprise you anymore.”

“How absurd.”

“It’s true.”

Sherlock’s mouth shakes, because it might be.

“I wouldn’t care,” he says at last. “I’d be bored. For you. It would be a gift.”

John shakes his head. “I wouldn’t want it. You unhappy would be like--like when there’s a bad smell caught in the back of your nose.”

“I’ll be unhappy when you die.”

John seems to have nothing to say to that, because he does what he always does when he’s at a loss for words: kisses whatever bit of Sherlock is closest until he calms. It’s his forehead just now, then the salty moisture on his cheeks, the corners of his mouth, and finally Sherlock is kissing him hard, trying to remember this moment for the inevitable day that John is no longer there.

John keeps lying at his side even after the trembling eases, petting his hair and letting Sherlock feel his heartbeat.

“We’ve got time,” he says.

Sherlock swallows. His throat is very tight.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And...fin. For now. :)

**Author's Note:**

> I had been hungry all the years-  
> My noon had come, to dine-  
> I, trembling, drew the table near  
> And touched the curious wine.  
>  _-Emily Dickinson_


End file.
